


Beginnings

by Birds_wings_fire



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2744438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birds_wings_fire/pseuds/Birds_wings_fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johanna lays in bed and thinks about her scars, Katniss comforts and holds her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> TW for self-injury/cutting. Not fluff or smut, just some emotional intensity. I might add to this eventually.
> 
> I've been reading fic for years but this is the first time I've actually written one, so I'd love any and all comments.

The days dragged but they were bearable. The nights were harder. The quiet and the darkness settled over everything and the acid taste of chaos started up again in her mind.

Johanna lay curled under the blankets, her wrists itching, tucked between her knees. For a while, it was comforting to think of the scalpel she had stolen from the hospital bay, the reassuring metal of it in the pocket of her coat. Johanna smiled slightly in the dark, picturing the outline of the scalpel in her coat, thrown over a chair only inches away. She had been absurdly worried about accidentally cutting her fingertips on the blade if she reached into the pocket wrong. But of course she was always careful.

And now it was dark. Johanna hoped that Katniss would spend tonight with Prim and her mother, but she was here, asleep in her bed across the room, the soft sound of her breath filling up the small space.

Slipping her hands under the waistband of her pants, Johanna moved her fingers over the white lines on her thigh. She wished she could look at them, admire the uniformity, the sharp determination of the scars, but the light would wake Katniss and there was no way to explain.

The itch in her wrists intensified—she had been able to keep the cuts mostly to her thighs for years and no one had ever noticed. Johanna worried that visible scars on her arms would tell everyone the truth, that she was weak, worthless. But it hardly seemed to matter anymore. In the depths of her torture, lost in the torrent of her own screams in the capitol, Johanna had realized that no one was coming. In the midst of the endless pain, all that comforted her was the thought of those neat rows of red blood.

She had thought about Katniss sometimes, about Finnick, the two of them shooting their way through, pulling Johanna from her restraints. She imagined Katniss’ lips on her forehead and hated herself more with each thought.

Now, in the small room, Katniss was still as far away as she had always been. It didn’t matter, Johanna didn’t think much about Katniss anymore, just red lines, blood pooling over the edges of each careful cut on her arm.

She curled tighter into herself, digging her nails into the flesh of her forearms. She might have cried, she thought, if she were someone else.

The air in the room stirred, Johanna could sense movement, the shifting of blankets, Katniss’ bare feet shuffling across the floor.

“Jo?”

Johanna froze. Had she made any noise? Her eyes were dry, her body rigid, had she been rocking?

“Johanna?” Katniss voice was low, scratchy with sleep. “… are you okay?”

“I’m fine, brainless,” Johanna snapped, “go back to sleep.”

“Jo.” It wasn’t a question. Johanna, facing the wall, twisted her head to look over her shoulder. Katniss was a tall black outline in the dark room. She moved closer now, standing at the side of Johanna’s bed.

Katniss reached out her hand and let it hover for a second over Johanna, unsure and surprised by her own movement. Finally, she settled her hand down lightly on Johanna’s shoulder.

Johanna tensed. She remembered being back in her holding cell, the hours she spent imagining Katniss waking her with a light touch.

In the soft darkness of the room, Johanna felt warmth spreading from Katniss’ palm, through the blanket. Johanna couldn’t remember the last time she had been warm. She waited for Katniss to move her hand, to go back to her own bed. She gritted her teeth, prepared for it to end.

But Katniss didn’t move. Her hand stayed on Johanna’s shoulder, heavier now, the warmth grounding her. Johanna felt herself tightening, a string pulled taut.

“Jo,” Katniss said again, more breath than voice.

She lifted her knee to the bed, hesitantly. “Can I, Jo?” Katniss asked, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Johanna whispered. She hadn’t meant to but the word was out, floating in the air between them, in that soft, dark room.

And then Katniss was climbing into the bed, stretching out hesitantly beside her. Johanna stayed curled on her back, staring blankly at the wall. This was a dream. It had to be. She would wake up screaming in her cell.

Katniss shifted, curling herself around Johanna, her chest pressed solidly against Johanna’s back. “I’m here, Jo. Johanna, I’m here. Is that okay?”

Johanna couldn’t breathe, her heart rattled in her ribcage and she could feel herself trembling, her whole body shaking as Katniss wrapped her arms around her, holding her while she shook.

“Yes,” Johanna whispered again, “yes, yes.”

They didn’t speak anymore, but Katniss was a solid weight at Johanna’s back and there was not much left to say.

Long minutes passed and in the quiet, Johanna felt something hot and wet on the back of her neck—it took her a second to realize that Katniss was weeping, silently, tears soaking into the pillow as she held Joanna’s trembling shape.

Soon, they slept.


End file.
